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A neighbor thought my 73-year-old mother was just a sweet woman with too much free time. But when that same person took advantage of her kindness, I ensured the truth came to light.
My mom is 73.
She has the same routine as when she worked at the library — puts on her face cream, irons a blouse even if she’s not going anywhere, and brews her coffee in that chipped white pot she refuses to replace.
Then she sits at the table with her small black notebook and writes down everything she spent money on the day before. Four dollars on milk. Thirty-eight cents for a pack of gum.
She notes down everything: groceries, prescriptions, and more.
She doesn’t complain, never has.
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